


Peter Parker: King of Wakanda

by TheZev



Category: Black Panther (2018), Black Panther (Comics), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-03 22:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13350486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheZev/pseuds/TheZev
Summary: While the Panther is away, the Spider will play.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the absence of the Black Panther movie actually being out yet, I'm basing the characters and backstory mostly on Christopher Priest's comic run (this story itself is inspired by the arc in which Everett K. Ross became, well, King of Wakanda). If, after the movie comes out, there are any (or, more likely, numerous) inconsistencies, that's why.

“I can’t be King of Wakanda!” Peter protested feebly. “I… I’m not registered to vote!”

 

T’Challa looked at him with gentle remonstration, as T’Challa tended to look at people. “It is the most viable alternative to me staying in Wakanda and ruling myself, which is not possible. I have business which must be attended to, elsewhere, and personally.”

 

“But--!” Peter began, his protest a little stronger now.

 

Nonetheless, T’Challa overrode it. “Someone _must_ seat the throne in my stead. An Avenger is the most logical choice. As my teammates, they are equal in honor to me. And unlike many of them, you have few responsibilities of your own.”

 

“I have school!”

 

“It is summer,” T’Challa reminded him. If anything, his gentleness was almost exaggerated.

 

“I have summer reading!”

 

“You can do it here. Is not most reading in America done on the throne?”

 

“Was that a joke?” Peter asked, but T’Challa was already walking away.

 

He expected Peter to follow, and as in most things, he was proven right. Peter followed after him on what he soon realized was the royal tour.

 

In fact, T’Challa had been giving him a tour of the facilities—so to speak—for the last hour, and it had only recently dawned on Peter that just because he’d been brought along on the Quinjet as an extra pair of hands to take out a Centipede remnant (note: whatever that was) trying its hand at vibranium smuggling… did not mean that the Wakandan King would then thank him for his troubles by giving him a look at Afrofuturist superscience. Tony had been only slightly un-blasé’d (“Yeah, sure, I guess, as long as _you’ve_ got a supersonic jet that can get him back to the States before curfew. His aunt’s a real stickler about no superheroing in the AM, _although_ I guess since we crossed the international date line…”)

 

And now that Peter’s state-sponsored geekout had become a cram session on Wakandan culture, Peter was realizing he’d basically just been given the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist equivalent of ‘nose goes’.

 

“This is the Hall of Wakanda, where the royal tapestries depict some of the most important moments in our history. If you must cling to walls in the palace, please, do not do so here.”

 

“This is nuts!” Peter insisted, and regretted raising his voice as T’Challa favored him with an… _unamused_ look.

 

“I should also say that I am recalcitrant to allow you to use your ‘webbing’ while I am uncertain of the chemical composition it decays into. If you must do so, try to avoid the air conditioners. You could do untold damage to our filters.”

 

“Don’t you have a vice president or a grand vizier…” Peter remembered every movie he’d ever watched. “Maybe not a grand vizier…”

 

“Wakanda is divided into tribes, such that it would give your American ‘partisanship’ new meaning. If I appointed a member of one tribe to the stewardship, it would be seen as showing them unwarranted favor by many others. They would take exception. _Violent_ exception. An honored outsider upon the throne is, at least, a compromise that pleases no one. In politics, this is very favorable.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Peter groused, “you guys are more Game of Thrones than Parks & Rec. But I cannot be—“

 

T’Challa silenced him with another glare as they reached the end of the Hall of Wakanda. “I have seen your program, The Game of Thrones. I do not consider the analogy apt, on account of their primitive technology and often times gratuitous sexuality.”

 

That said, T’Challa led Peter through a set of curtains and into what could’ve passed for James Bond’s id. The place was like a waterpark themed after a Turkish bath. There were dozens of women, and nowhere near enough clothes to go around. As steam rose up from God only knew where, the women soaped themselves, toweled off, showered, bathed, even gave each other massages. And all of them were _built._ You could fill a dozen Pirelli calendars without repeats, and that _before_ they went all politically correct.

 

Upon seeing T’Challa, the women all snapped to attention—Peter could sympathize—and said something in Hausa that Peter couldn’t understand, but was obviously some form of greeting. _Good morning, Charlie,_ he thought to himself.

 

“Uhm…” Peter said. “Maybe I should wait outside.”

 

“Nonsense,” T’Challa said grandly, as if he were showing off. “These are the Dora Milaje. While you are here, they will serve as your personal protection.”

 

“Yeah, that makes perfect sense.” Peter rubbed the back of his head. “Because that’s the part I’m going to have trouble with—I can take care of myself.”

 

“They will also tend to your sexual needs.”

 

Peter choked on some spit. “Can I talk to you outside?” he wheezed.

 

“What’s wrong?” T’Challa asked good-naturedly. “Can you take care of that yourself as well?”

 

Outside—thankfully—Peter sat down on one of the benches that faced the tapestries. He hacked up a little of the offending spittle, but swallowed it again. If T’Challa didn’t like weblines hanging around the palace, he’d surely take offense to spitting on the floors.

 

“So, uh… how’s that again? With the sexual needs?”

 

T’Challa produced a bottled water from nowhere—Peter wouldn’t put it past him to find some way to have pockets on a skintight bodysuit—and offered it to him. Evian. Peter drank some.

 

“The Dora Milaje—the adored ones—are the wives in waiting of the Black Panther. This is largely a ceremonial position. If I was ever to act on the… implicit contract… with them, we would be immediately wed. Naturally, as appealing as the prospect itself would be, these consequences are less than ideal.”

 

“Because…” Peter paused to take another drink. “Game of Thrones.”

 

“More or less,” T’Challa agreed. “However, in my absence, they are pledged to serve and defend you instead. But, as an outsider, they would not be expected to marry you. This gives them something of a gray area in which to indulge themselves, as apart from myself and… nuptials… they are unable to sate themselves.”

 

“So, basically, you have a bunch of horny virgin Amazon bodyguards and they’ll do whatever I say?”

 

“Of course not,” T’Challa said. “It is forbidden for the Dora Milaje to talk to anyone but themselves and their beloved.”

 

“So… they won’t do that,” Peter said. “Anything else?”

 

T’Challa shook his head.

 

Peter gripped the water bottle with both hands. “They are going to get like twenty episodes of Maury out of this, I just know it…”

 

T’Challa reached out and placed a palm on his shoulder. “I am certain as responsible a man as you will resist temptation. At least, to a reasonable extent. Besides, it is not such an imposition as you may think. Many of the Dora Milaje practice… what is the English?... lesbian liaisons. Another gray area in which they may find succor.”

 

“Okay, yeah, sure,” Peter nodded. “I’m not such a jerk that I’m going to mess with a bunch of lesbians. Respecting women juice up in here.”

 

“Of course,” T’Challa considered, “that does not mean they are not curious as to more traditional forms of coitus. Not to mention those who may wish children.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

T’Challa’s wristwatch vibrated. He touched it briefly and it stopped. “My flight has been prepared. I must depart.”

 

“But… Wakanda! There has to be more to running it than a harem of bicurious Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders!”

 

“Wakanda is a modern republic,” T’Challa assured him. “It will largely run itself. My advisers will be of great help to you. Just try not to do anything I wouldn’t do.”

 

“Oh, like I’ve never heard that before.”

 

T’Challa took off, obviously considering the conversation at an end. This time Peter didn’t follow him, for the same reason he’d gone on the tour before.

 

He’d _just_ worked his way up to shittalking Iron Man. No way was he saying no to the Black Panther. And his all-girl swingers club.

 

Still, Peter hung his head. “So much for my summer vacation.”

 

Beside him, the curtain parted and a woman’s face emerged from the small opening, skin wet, hair wrapped in a towel, a soap bubble marring the otherwise perfect symmetry of her bone structure.

 

“Beloved, do you need to bathe?” she asked. “We have plenty of warm water and we have finished all our vaginal shaving.”

 

Peter wondered how to break it to them that he had a thing for redheads.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter’s first day at court was stressful, but that was mostly on him, he’d admit. In his current state, he couldn’t be at a food court without being stressed. But mostly he just had to play judge in private disputes. Judge Judy stuff--disagreements over land, cattle, property. No one asked him to cut a baby in half. He listened to the evidence, consulted his advisors, and tried not to rock the boat too much. It got almost tedious after a while; he started to wonder if T’Challa had stuck him with the busywork while he went clubbing or something.

 

Finally, exhausted mentally and twitchy physically, he threw himself through some simple parkour moves in his suite, blowing off steam. Somehow he doubted Wakanda had a lot of purse snatchers, or at least that they would appreciate having their substitute teacher hauling them down to the police station.

 

He’d just done a triple-axel flip when he heard someone clearing her throat.

 

He recognized Ramonda from earlier. She was T’Challa’s mom, or stepmom, since the woman barely looked older than he was. The body--all wide hips, bounteous breasts, and a mature but very slightly playful face--could’ve belonged to a twenty-year-old.

 

Peter tried to rein in his MILFy feelings. T’Challa was one of the few people, after all, who didn’t seem to think Aunt May was Playmate of the Month.

 

“Ramonda!” he gasped in surprise. “Mrs. Ramonda, I mean… what’re you doing here? I mean, it’s your palace, you can be here, sure, I’m not questioning that, but what, uh, are you specifically doing in this particular--”

 

“I am more than the Queen Mother,” Ramonda said. When she spoke, that playful Cool Mom vibe went right out the window. She sounded like she was performing Shakespeare. “I am the mother of all Wakanda. Especially of its king.”

 

“That’s cool,” Peter said. “Does that answer my question? Did that answer my question? I just--am I missing something?”

 

She sighed patiently. “It is Wakandan custom that a mother sleep in her son’s room until he is of age.”

 

Peter was agape. “ _T’Challa sleeps with his mommy?”_

 

Ramonda stared at him a moment, soul-crushingly, before leavening it with a slight smile. “My son has passed the ritual affirming him a man. You have not. Thus, I will sleep in your room, my surrogate son.”

 

“Can I just take the ritual?”

 

“Would you like to be covered in ants three inches long for four hours?”

 

“No ritual, got it,” Peter said. “So, what, technically here I’m… a child?”

 

“I believe the term is boy-king.”

 

“Just because I’m not a beekeeper?”

 

“T’Challa will be back soon. It is not necessary for you to be a perfect king. Only to make sure nothing is on fire.” She walked up to Peter and laid a cool hand on his cheek. “I am an outsider too. Not Wakandan. T’Challa’s father took me, a foreigner, for his second wife, and he was greatly criticized for it. But if I can put up with this land’s… idiosyncrasies… you can do the same. For a few days.”

 

Peter scratched the back of his neck and thought of the Dora. “Did they make you the main character in a harem anime, though?”

 

***

 

Okoye was not happy.

 

She was rarely happy. Her happiness was tied to the king’s safety, and her king was rarely safe.

 

Now he had left her side altogether, on another of his secretive maneuverings, which she was now not even a part of. She was expected to guard some ringer T’Challa had staked out in his throne room for some inscrutable purpose of his own.

 

She let herself into the Parker boy’s bedchambers and saw, as she expected, Ramonda off to the side in her own bed. Parker slept in what should’ve been T’Challa’s bed, snoring gently.

 

Okoye approached Ramonda’s bed. “My queen.”

 

Ramonda was half-asleep. “It’s been a long time since you felt the need to guard the king.”

 

“That is not T’Challa,” Okoye replied, almost angrily--though a Dora was never truly angry except when her king was threatened.

 

“I am told he is a hero in his own right.”

 

Okoye sniffed derisively.

 

“Guard him, do not guard him,” Ramonda said. “Whatever assuages your feelings.”

 

“My feelings do not factor into it,” Okoye said.

 

“They never do,” Ramonda finished laconically, then rolled over to sleep.

 

Okoye made a face in the darkness, then went to stand at the foot of Parker’s bed. King or no king, she would guard him as if he were T’Challa himself. The Panther would see her devotion to even the idea of him.

 

It was a few hours into her vigil that she idly looked over Parker and saw a great fold in the sheets covering him. It could only be one thing--a snake creeping into his bed. She did not know if one had managed to creep into the palace in a one-in-a-million failing of the security systems, or if it had been planted there by one of the royal family’s enemies, but there was a definite presence between Parker’s legs. Unthinking, Okoye ripped the sheets away and saw--no snake, but a large erection stirring from Parker’s groin.

 

Okoye stood there. Parker continued to sleep. Ramonda continued to sleep. Parker wiggled about slightly, trying to get comfortable with his sheets suddenly torn away, and his manhood continued to erect itself. Okoye stared at it. Each time she thought it had gone as full and as hard and as big and as long as it could go, it became fuller and harder and bigger and longer.

 

 _What is he dreaming about?_ She wondered, before she thought that as his bodyguard, she had been the most continuous female presence in his day. Her pussy clenched at the idea.

 

This was ridiculous; she did not even know if he had some crush on her, but if he did, she wouldn’t indulge it. She picked the sheets up off the floor and was making to throw them back over Parker when she saw a pearl of glistening precum on the tip of his member, now fully eleven inches and as thick around as her wrist.

 

Okoye had thought, often, of how relentlessly T’Challa drove himself, how ascetic he rendered his existence, and how much lighter his soul would be if he just allowed himself pleasure, sexual pleasure. Okoye knew, traditionally, he’d be required to marry her if they ever indulged themselves that way, but she would never hold him to that. It could be their little secret.

 

But, if sex would be good for T’Challa, how much more so for this callow youth, unprepared and untested for the challenges ahead of him--probably already starting to crack?

 

It could not hurt, could it? Either of them…

 

In the silvery light before sunrise, she lay down between Peter’s splayed legs. She sniffed his cock--musky and masculine, as she never would’ve expected from his slender appearance. Her tongue worked its way out of her mouth and went to his cock, sliding over its veins, its flavor. Peter moaned, mumbling in his sleep as Okoye mouthed his cock. She saw his toes spread, then curl into little balls. Peter wiggled his hips under the assault of Okoye’s pleasure, and spiked himself up into her throat. He was mumbling in his sleep, a smile on his face.

 

Okoye could feel her pussy, tenderly sensitive against her panties, burning, aching. She couldn’t help herself from thinking of the engorged shaft of Peter’s member--a hardness of length and size that she was learning intimately, practically committing to memory--and how it would feel in her cunt. She imagined with great pleasure the slapping of his oversized balls against her ass, and tried to feel what it would be like to have him ejaculate inside her, lathering up her passage with his warm cream. She could not even imagine; she had never gotten that from a dildo. But she could at least learn how it felt in her mouth, her throat...

 

Okoye gripped the base of his shaft in her hand as she bobbed her head up and down on it. His cockhead pushed into her throat, a challenge to gulp down, but she sucked his thick, lusty cock all the way to the balls.

 

“Uhm… ohhhh!” Peter arched up, his toes curling hard as he surged into Okoye’s throat. His eyes shot open, then rolled back in his head. His cum spurted into Okoye’s stomach in thick, satisfying globs.

 

Okoye moaned softly as she sucked, her hunger satisfied. Her tongue churned at Peter’s cockhead, her lips smacking, and he fed her thick spurt after thick spurt, almost a dozen before he fell back with a sigh. Okoye was still milking his jism out of him when he relaxed into a snore.

 

Peter probably wouldn’t even remember the blowjob when he finally woke. His cock would remember it though--or so Okoye liked to imagine. His cock would know who had made it feel so good.

 

She kissed his cock, each ball, then the wiry harshness of his pubic hair. Reaching down into her pants, she felt her pussy and was barely surprised to find herself damp. She wetted her fingers and, with as light a touch as possible, rubbed them below Peter’s nose and along his lips. His nostrils flared and his lips smacked. She saw his cock flare to a full erection once more. Okoye backed away from it, a little intimidated. How many times could that… happen? It already felt like she’d eaten a full meal, just from swallowing instead of spitting.

 

She would have to tell the others about this.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter woke up feeling surprisingly fresh and well-rested, considering how crappy his day had been. Maybe Wakanda had advanced mattress technology in addition to the flying cars. He stretched and yawned and then remembered Ramonda was there when he saw her sitting in one of the room’s chairs, wearing only a robe. It wasn’t closed. With her shapely legs spread, he could see her shaven sex opened wide, the smooth glistening pinkness inside, the muscles contracting spasmodically in some unfathomable working that struck him as excited somehow.

 

“Hello, Peter Parker,” she said, and only then did Peter realize she was combing her hair. The hair on her head, not… “I trust you had a good night’s sleep?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter squeaked, his voice cracking pubescently—“Very good. Very, very good.”

 

“Good,” Ramonda teased with one of her rich smiles. “I hope you don’t mind my appearance. I know Wakanda’s standards are not those of all the outside world.”

 

“No, it’s fine. They’re fine.” Peter tried nodding. Goddamn, just sitting there, she looked like Halle Berry doing a Playboy shoot.

 

“These are the kinds of things you must become accustomed to if you are to rule Wakanda. Differing customs. New ideas.”

 

“Yes, yeah, I am just going to cold shower. Shower. You have cold water in your showers?”

 

“Yes,” Ramonda said. “You may sleep naked too, if you wish.”

 

“I… yes, what?”

 

“This is Africa. It is warm. Excessive air conditioning is hurtful to the environment.”

 

“Yeah, I dig it, stay woke,” Peter said rapidly. “I’m going to shower now.”

 

***

 

An hour of cold shower did nothing to diminish his erection, probably because he couldn’t stop thinking of Ramonda and this weird dream he’d had of Liz Allan and how her throat worked in gulps as she swallowed fruit juice. Finally, Peter could put it off no longer. He dressed in slack clothes and hoped no one would notice until he’d resumed normal operations.

 

He remembered enough of his itinerary to know there was no people’s court today. T’Challa had an office, which meant Peter had an office, and he was to go there to review proposed legislation.

 

His prick was still hard when he rolled into the royal chambers; he had to smuggle it past the doorman like he was a spy. In the elevator, he faked a bad cough that required him to politely turn away from another passenger so that only the wall saw his jutting erection. Coming out into the elevator bank, he found a janitor bent over his broom. Peter bent over his hard-on, hoping he could slump down far enough to hide the prominent outline extending down his pantleg. The janitor noticed his posture, but not his manhood. He figured that the burden of the office was enough to weigh heavily on any man.

 

Finally, Peter arrived at his temporary office, with its nice big desk to hide behind—and Shuri on top of it.

 

“Mr. Parker,” she greeted, almost respectfully. She had wanted to rule Wakanda while T’Challa was away, but—Peter could only assume here—the Panther hadn’t wanted to put her in danger by making her a target for assassination. Peter got that. He had an aunt. But Shuri didn’t like playing second fiddle to Cousin Oliver any more than he would’ve. But she muddled through.

 

All of that, at the moment, paled in comparison to how she looked. Dressed in the finest Wakandan fashions, which verged on eroticism while staying in professionalism’s lane. Her light brown skin—much of it exposed—reminded Peter absurdly of a lovingly prepared cup of hot cocoa, while curly golden hair formed a sort of halo around her oval face, somewhere between endearingly ruffled bedhead and a stylishly chic haircut. There was a beauty mark just above her lip, and another just above her nipple, and Peter’s gaze wandered between the two as his erection now started throbbing maddeningly. Maybe it was something in the water.

 

“T’Challa’s sister!” he said, an attempt at levity that got him nothing but a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Helping,” Shuri said. “If I can’t rule Wakanda, I can at least prevent you from running it into the ground.” She gave a slightly apologetically, but mostly mocking smile. “Not that you would, of course.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Peter agreed. He hunched over, crab-walking towards his desk. “Mind if I get my desk back from your butt?”

 

One perfectly poised eyebrow rose—Shuri had great eyebrows too—but Shuri didn’t free up his desk space one iota. “It’s my family’s desk. And what’s wrong with your back?”

 

“My back? Nothing! Oh, uh, I think I threw it out the other day. Working out. I work out a lot.”

 

“I’m sure,” Shuri said. _Now_ she got down off his desk. “Let me have a look at you. I have a medical degree.”

 

“Of course you do,” Peter muttered; she was now standing in his way, blocking him from getting to his chair and sweet relief from the fear of being discovered. “Please move? I’m your king. You kinda gotta.”

 

“What is that you’re hiding?” Shuri demanded, sounding like the teacher in one of those dreams where Peter went to school in his underwear. “ _Have you stolen something?”_

“What? No!”

 

Shuri grabbed him by the shirt. “If you have stolen one ounce of Wakanda’s treasures, I will…” She pulled him upright to threaten him, and as she did, he was forced flush against her body. Shuri felt his heft against her thigh and automatically looked down, only then seeing what Peter had hidden.

 

“That is…” Shuri stared at it. She reached for it, as if seeking to confirm for her other senses what her eyes were telling her, but jerked her hand back. Peter’s cock had started throbbing even harder at the prospect of being touched. “That is not one of Wakanda’s treasures.”

 

“No, it’s not,” Peter agreed, and took advantage of her evident shock to sidle past her and seat himself. He quickly hid his lower body in the desk’s footwell—and thought he heard a muffled groan coming from Shuri. He turned to her to explain what had happened, before remembering that Ramonda was her mother too. He doubted Shuri wanted to hear about what a MILF she was.

 

Clearing his throat, Peter tried to proceed as if he didn’t have a raging hard-on stretching from his lap up to the bottom of his desk drawer… and running a little along the underside. “Can you either leave me alone or help me? I don’t know how it is in Wakanda, but where I’m from, guys occasionally get boners. It happens. I’m sure women have their own biological things that they appreciate a little sensitivity about.”

 

“Yes, of course,” Shuri said, hurrying to close the door. “You will be reviewing legislation… most of it has been in the working for months, so it’s either deadlocked or ready for a signature. I’ve filed them appropriately and collated comments from T’Challa’s advisers. Just sign the documents that need to be signed—there will only be a few of them—and send the rest back for further working.”

 

“There, was that so hard?” Peter smiled shakily. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

 

“It is alright. I acted disrespectfully to my king. T’Challa has asked me to serve you faithfully, as I would him, and my behavior just now was… shameful.”

 

“Hey, I’m the one with the hard-on,” Peter said. “Let’s just both agree it never happened.”

 

“Yes.” Shuri nodded gratefully. “You also must meet with the representative from Latveria, who wishes to broach the subject of a mining agreement. It will be rejected, of course, as it would be even if T’Challa were here, but we must show the proper…” Shuri stopped suddenly, her eyes lighting up with realization. “You cannot see him like that.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Shuri was already removing her clothing.

 

Peter stopped talking, both because his response to Shuri disrobing more-than-adequately distilled what she was referring to.

 

And because she had clearly inherited Ramonda’s looks and then some.

 

Her body was slender, with dark, curly pubic hair spread out in a wide triangle that accentuated the deliciousness of her hips. Her breasts were not large but they were well-formed, suited to her lithe body, the nipples bullets pushing out from areolas as big as silver dollars. As she stripped, her whole nubile body swayed—reminding Peter not of a dancer but of a palm tree in a cool breeze off the waves of a beach.

 

She looked back at him, watching him watching her, taking a hidden satisfaction in the desire that glowed in his eyes. Now naked, she drew up to Peter, her slim belly roiling, her hips weaving some side to side. Then she stood before him, reaching down with deft hands to open his fly. She pulled the zipper down with tantalizing slowness, looking into his eyes with her satisfaction not so hidden, until she finally had it all the way down. His prick was stuck inside his plaid boxers, dragging them outward like a tarp over a pillar. Shuri unbuttoned the top of his fly and unbuckled his belt. His pants fell open in a vee.

 

Now his prick was free to thrust out and drag the elastic waistband of his underwear away from his belly. Shuri looked down and saw his naked prick shaded inside his boxers. It looked even larger than she could’ve imagined. She cupped his balls through his boxers, finding they were pleasingly firm, with a solid heft of cum. With her other hand, she pulled his boxers down over his cock, then dragged them down so that the waistband was under his balls and all of his equipment was hers.

 

She leaned up and kissed him on the mouth, his cockhead pushing into her belly.

 

“I’ve always said that I would do anything for my people,” Shuri said, speaking into his breathless mouth. “If that includes… defusing a tense… situation… then I will do it.”

 

“I could just jerk off,” Peter said.

 

“It’s for my people!” Shuri chastised violently.

 

She leaned over the desk, her breasts flattening beneath her, her ass hiked up like an offering, her cunt wet and glistening. He didn’t see that he had any other choice but to move in behind her. She tossed her head around to watch him, a happily smile on her panting lips, her eyes glassy with lust. Peter wrapped his hand around the base of his prick and guided the engorged cockhead to her entrance. He began to move his glans around in her slit, readying her for his penetration. He could feel her pussy suckling him, trying to draw him inside her hot sex. Shuri squirmed, her ass tensing, almost vibrating. Peter grasped her by the hips and braced his feet. His whole body tensed. Then he buried the full length of his manhood inside her.

 

Shuri wailed with joy.

 

She writhed around her new center, her newly filled cunt, grinding her ass back against his loins as she tried to get used to being impaled. He drew out, and Shuri gulped in breath, both relieved that the exquisite tension was over and wishing it would’ve continued. She looked down at the desk underneath her and realized she had been drooling onto the ancient symbol of Wakandan leadership.

 

Peter looked down at his cock and saw that it was soaking, that Shuri’s arousal was literally dripping off it. He fucked into her again. His shaft hissed into her, and either he was bigger or she was clenching, because she felt tighter than before, her inner muscles dragging and pulling on him. His balls swung back and forth to slap against her groin, adding an extra straw to the backbreaking load of being filled and stretched to the extent Shuri was.

 

He began thrusting faster and harder, giving her all of his big prick over and over again, only to pull it away against the suction of her depths. His body jolted with bursts of pleasure as he pumped into her. Shuri was trembling wildly as well, her whole body shaking harder as it got used to the rhythm Peter was fucking her with. Impatient for the tightness of her cunt, he began dragging her back by her hips as he fucked into her, pulling her pussy onto his cock like he’d put on a glove.

 

Her sex was melting around his prick.

 

Now Peter started dipping down with his knees before he thrusted, fucking into Shuri from a lower angle so that his full length rubbed against her clit. A new thrill darted up Shuri’s body, meeting the sensation that was already roiling deep in her groin. It felt like a warm tide was coming in, each wave of it higher, crashing down harder.

 

Shuri was letting out a continuous moan now, and each time Peter entered her, she gave a short, sharp cry as if she could not believe that it was happening again, that she was feeling such pleasure a second and third and fourth and fifth time.

 

Then, as he withdrew, sluicing out of her saturated pussy, Shuri sighed, the counterpoint to her outcries, longer and softer and drawn out to the point of quavering.

 

She was gasping for breath, having trouble focusing her eyes, not caring about anything but the feel of his cock fucking steadily into her, when she heard Peter say, “Call the ambassador and tell him we’ll be late.”

 

“Yes!” Shuri agreed. “Yes! Oh, sweet Bast, I will!”

 

She turned her head automatically to the phone and found him fucking even harder into her. He would’ve knocked her off the desk if it weren’t for his firm, _bruising_ grip on her body.

 

“Call him while I fuck you.”

 

Peter’s words thrilled her. He expected her to carry out affairs of state while he was inside her!

 

She tried, she most definitely tried. But the cock fucking hard into her pussy almost betrayed her, time and again, to the man on the other end of the line. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she had made her apologies and her alternate arrangements. She hung up the phone and Peter’s cum pushed inside her, pumping into her sex in a hot stream, such pressure that her pelvis tilted, her ass jumping.

 

He poured serving after serving of his thick cream into her, and her pussy responded with clenching, exploding orgasms as they worked wildly against each other, burning off their lust.

 

Shuri slid across the desk, limbs akimbo, a huge smile on her face.

 

Peter drew himself out of her pussy, now as wet with his seed as it was with her own juices.

 

He was mildly surprised, but not at all displeased to find that his cock remained rigid. When she managed to lift her head enough to see for herself, Shuri was even more pleased than Peter.

 

“I’ll get the ambassador back on the line,” she said.


	4. Chapter 4

Monica Lynne had had enough. She’d really just had enough.

 

Ten years ago, in college, she’d dated T’Challa as he was educated abroad. It had been love; she wouldn’t deny that. But T’Challa’s love for her would never outweigh his duty to the crown, and they had ended it.

 

Which hadn’t stopped multitudes of T’Challa’s enemies from striking at her to get to him, involving her in all kinds of sinister plots and T’Challa’s counterplots, regular as clockwork, until she’d spent more time as a pawn in one of T’Challa’s damned Chess games than she ever had as his lover.

 

It was interminable.

 

And a week ago she’d been scooped once up more by the Dora Milaje. Secured in the royal palace to be kept safe from Wakanda’s enemies. A generous, loving act of protectiveness on T’Challa’s part.

 

She was so goddamned sick of it she could scream.

 

Leaving her room—her faithful Dora escorts Aneka and Ayo trailing behind her—she marched herself up to T’Challa’s office. She imagined he had left instructions she was to be permitted access night and day, otherwise she would never have gotten that far. She reached the huge double doors that opened into the larger-still office—never let it be said that Wakandans were ones for false modesty—and found them locked.

 

She could hear _someone_ inside, speaking, but his nasal voice bore little resemblance to T’Challa’s deep baritone. She leaned her ear closer to hear what was being said.

 

“Easy, easy—Shuri, it’s empty, okay, I promise—“

 

Monica heard a feminine voice trilling on in the Wakandan language, which she had never learned, but evidently the man either understood it or just liked the way it sounded.

 

“Hey, you’ve got to stop talking like that, you’re making me horny again…”

 

Monica banged an angry fist on the door as Aneka and Ayo stood there, radiating discomfort.

 

“T’Challa! Open this door right now! I need to talk to you! I’m not staying cooped up in this goddamn hellhole another minute without a _damned_ good explanation!”

 

She heard the intercom beside the door frizzle. “Uh, yeah… let her in.”

 

The door unlocked and opened and Monica saw her almost sister-in-law Shuri standing beside that monolithic desk of T’Challa’s. But sitting behind it was a skinny white boy who could _not_ be out of college.

 

“Hey!” Monica called, stampeding into the office like she owned the place. “What the hell is this? Who are you? What the _fuck_ is going on here?”

 

“Nothing!” Shuri said, too innocently, and Monica gave her a withering glare. She self-consciously adjusted her clothes.

 

“I’m Peter Parker,” the boy said. “T’Challa left me in charge.”

 

“Is this a joke?”

 

“No, I’ve asked.”

 

“T’Challa—the king of Wakanda—picks me up in the middle of the night, flies me halfway around the world, sticks me in a safe house ‘for my own good,’ and then he _leaves_ without a word?”

 

“I, uh…” Peter said haltingly. “I think something came up.”

 

Monica just growled, head bowed, wondering how she could ever have been in love with such a goddamn _prat._

“Ladies—I mean, other ladies,” Peter said, “could you give us a minute?”

 

Shuri and the Dora Milaje left the room, Shuri moving quickly—if a little bowlegged, Monica noticed.

 

Peter got up and stepped around the desk as the doors shut and locked. “Listen, I’m in the same boat. T’Challa just seemed to point at me and say I was the guy. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do. But T’Challa’s a good guy… he wouldn’t do all this if there wasn’t a plan, if it weren’t the right thing to do…”

 

“At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself,” Monica said.

 

With Peter out from behind the desk, she could see the thick outline of his prick forming a bulge on the inside of his thigh. It was plain to see he was still excited from _something_ that’d been going on… and with T’Challa’s sister, too.

 

“Ha!” Monica barked a laugh. It served T’Challa right. “You’re right. T’Challa is a good guy. But more and more, I wish he was a good man.”

 

Peter obviously didn’t know what to say to that. He hemmed and hawed, shifting his weight on his heels. “So, you’re from the States, too?”

 

“Yes. I’m Monica Lynne. T’Challa seems fascinated by us Yanks, doesn’t he?”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

Monica walked by him, sitting on the desk, the small impropriety something she never would’ve done if T’Challa was in residence. It felt good to defy him in some meaningless way; to do something that didn’t fit into his master plan.

 

And Peter sat down beside her, seeming to share in her glee at not participating in their own manipulation for a moment. “Hey, look. I know this is bullshit and you don’t deserve it. But I’ve been in T’Challa’s shoes, sorta. If someone I loved was in danger, I’d do whatever I could to protect them. But I’d also hate to have to protect them in the first place—to get them involved that seriously. It’s why I’m sort of a loner.”

 

Monica remembered Shuri. Such a serious woman, but even in her unease at Monica’s entrance, she’d seemed to be smiling. “Yes, I could see that.”

 

Peter didn’t know how to take that either. “So if there’s anything I can do to make your stay here more comfortable, anything at all—well, I am the king.”

 

Monica leaned back, thrusting her full, rounded breasts out. When she did it, she noticed Peter giving them a quick glance. He averted his eyes and clapped his hands on his knees, squeezing them there.

 

“Answer me one question,” Monica said. “Don’t you ever wish T’Challa ever took an L?”

 

“I don’t get what you mean. I mean, do I look like a sports guy?”

 

Monica smiled. “He’s always so smug, with these big chess plays that always work out just right. And that’s good, but just once, I’d like one of his master plans to blow up in his face. I’d like him to get beaten down. I’d like him to have his ass in a sling for a while. You know what I mean?”

 

“Not really? I mean, kinda.” Peter cracked his knuckles. “But T’Challa’s pretty much a ‘fate of the world’ guy these days, so if he lost, Boston would probably blow up. And I like Boston. They make good cream pies.”

 

“I bet you could make a pretty good one yourself,” Monica said.

 

Then, knowing it was now or never, she hopped down off the desk and knelt before him, spreading his legs. Quickly, she unzipped his jeans—out flopped his huge, mildly erect cock. She took it all in at a glance, barely prepared for its thick, potent size, the foreskin that collared the purpling head, the darkly colored veins that ran over its long length. Then she buried her nose in his musky-smelling pubic hair, mouthing the contours of his shaft with her pursed lips.

 

“What the fuck!?” Peter demanded, frozen with shock. He’d just gotten used to the idea that Black Panther had a steady girlfriend and now her face was jammed in his crotch. It took him a stunned moment to be able to gain some control of his body—he pushed Monica away. “Are you crazy?”

 

Monica wasn’t at all surprised by his reaction. She’d thought of doing this, thought of him doing that, and then decided that it didn’t matter. She was going through with it.

 

She slipped her blouse down, revealing her perfectly formed breasts, tipped with dark burgundy nipples.

 

“Oh my God!” Peter cried, still unable to believe this was happening. “You… you’re T’Challa’s girl!”

 

“Bullshit!” Monica spat. “Don’t give me that high school crap. I stopped being his girl when he dumped me, and I _sure as hell_ stopped being his girl when he started hauling me around the globe like some dumb sidekick because he didn’t want some foo’ calling himself the Man-Ape to get me. Now I’m going to show him just how _not his girl_ I am.”

 

Standing up, she thrust her breasts into his face. Even as he opened his mouth to protest, his lips brushed along the silky texture of her cleavage; his eyes became riveted on the creamy smoothness of her coffee-colored skin. He could even smell her pussy; somehow it made him think of cinnamon, slightly acrid, mostly sweet.

 

Peter raised his arms to push her away, but as he pressed out with them, she grabbed his wrists and he found his hands cupping her breasts, his palms burning against the satin of her mounds, the raised indentations of her areolas, the delicate spring of her nipples. His cock was standing out ramrod straight, as if half a liter of his cum weren’t swimming here or there in Shuri’s anatomy.

 

“Can I suck your dick, Peter Parker?” she asked quietly, which paradoxically made her words ring all the louder in his ears. “Can I suck the dick of the King of Wakanda—the _only_ King of Wakanda who’ll _ever_ get to come in my mouth?”

 

“Yes,” Peter heard himself answer, his lips moving over her left nipple as he spoke. It slipped between his teeth, touched the roof of his mouth—throbbing from there to where his lips closed on its base. “I mean, no!”

 

He pulled away, unbalancing himself, and falling onto his back on the desk, his lower body still mostly hanging off the edge.

 

“Try and stop me,” Monica said, slowly dropping to her knees. Peter was frozen by the sight of her drawing closer and closer to his member, until she was clutching it, pulling it down from its aim at the ceiling.

 

“Monica, please, think about your relationship,” he began, his voice trailing off into a whimper as he felt her hot, sucking mouth land on his glans. “I know you’re mad at T’Challa, but do you really want to…” The pressure of her mouth, warm, sweltering, moved down his cockhead to his crown. “Suck me… it isn’t right… you can’t… ever… take it out…” She kept going down his shaft, inch by inch, as her tongue dug under his foreskin. The sensitive, tender touch threw Peter’s head back in ecstasy. “Unhhhhh… suck me… you’re sucking me…”

 

Monica slipped her mouth back up—just in time too, as she couldn’t fit anymore of his manhood in her mouth and she didn’t know if she could take such a thick invader in her throat—and kissed down the underside of his manhood until she reached his balls. “Did I hear you right?” she asked, chewing gently over the loose skin of his scrotum, then sucking a ball into her mouth to wash it ardently with her tongue. She spat it out again, a thin line of drool connecting its wet veneer to her lips. “I can suck you?”

 

Peter sat up, defeated. He put his hands on her narrow shoulders, arching her down to his member before he slipped his hands down to the perfumed mounds of her chest. “Yes. Oh shit, yes. _Suck!”_

 

Covering his hands with her own on her breasts, encouraging him to feel and squeeze them to his heart’s content, Monica kissed the tip of his cock. As Peter’s fumbling caresses of her tits became firmer, more exciting, Monica let her lips part and, her pleasure swelling, she fed his cock into her mouth.

 

Peter moaned with pleasure as her lips collared him, his cockhead like a jawbreaker in her mouth, Monica’s cheeks hollowing as she suckled lovingly on the mouthful he had given her. She only let his knob into her mouth at first, sucking and slipping her tongue around it, much as her fingers were entwining with Peter’s to pressure her breasts. But then she bobbed her head up and down, going a little bit lower with each drop as she stretched her jaws to the limit around Peter’s member. Her lips were spread wide, her cheeks pulled taut. Saliva poured down his shaft and her chin.

 

Desperate to get more of him into her mouth, down her throat, she twisted her head from side to side, trying to find a new angle that would let more of Peter in. His cockhead lodged in her throat, then was wedged into her gullet. Monica dug her fingers into Peter’s forearms, her nails drilling into the flesh, trying to relieve the pressure as she deepthroated him. Her lips sank all the way down to the base of his cock, her nose nestling in wiry pubic hairs that already smelled of woman— _Shuri, you hot bitch—_ and her chin finding itself against his engorged balls.

 

Monica’s tongue kept working on him, flashing and flaring against what little it could reach of the member that stretched from deep in her throat to her outstretched lips. She slurped as she pulled herself back along his massive cock, her lips almost turning inside out. Her cheeks puffed and heaved like bellows. She was sucking as hard as she could, her head bobbing in a steady rhythm, trying to bring him to his climax, as desperate for his hot, thick load as she had been to be impaled on his manhood.

 

She could feel him throbbing now, pulsating, scalding drops of his precum falling in the back of her throat, his cum roiling in his balls. Monica pulled away until only his tip was still held by her exhausted mouth.

 

“Come,” she purred into his cockhead.

 

The word coursed down his shaft and hit his balls; Peter felt it more than heard it.

 

“Come,” she said again, closer to begging than not. “I want you to shoot in my mouth. I want to have a bellyful of your hot cum the next time I see T’Challa. I want him to see this face and know that it was impaled on your big cock. And most of all, I want to drink down your cum just because it tastes so… fucking… _good!”_

Peter groaned.

 

He grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her steady as his hips jaggedly moved, fucking his cock into her mouth. And her head went down to meet him, engulfing all of his shaft so that he was buried to the hilt in her wide-open mouth.

 

His balls expanded so hard Monica could feel them stirring against her chin. She whimpered pleadingly around his throbbing manhood. Then she gurgled as he suddenly exploded with what felt like a bucketful of jism against the back of her throat. She sucked and sucked, the muscles of her throat working convulsively as she struggled to swallow the flood that was suddenly thick and warm in her mouth.

 

Peter slumped back against the desk, closing his eyes and just breathing as his cum shot out in droves to Monica’s greedily sucking mouth. He was beginning to think that he’d never stop coming. He shivered from the overwhelming _release_ that he felt. Monica’s tongue fluttered deftly and her numb lips still managed to milk his spurting tool, cajoling him to fill her hot mouth again and again, as if he needed any further encouragement.

 

Monica focused her watering eyes on Peter’s face, contorted in pleasure, as he drenched her from her mouth to her belly with his thick cum. She wondered if this was the first time he’d shot in a girl’s mouth. Then she wondered if he had ever come inside a girl’s pussy—and how he would feel as he did.

 

When he’d finally finished, she raised her glowing face and purred, “Peter, you’re a darling, you know that? That was wonderful. Did you enjoy that as much as I did? Because I really enjoyed you coming in my mouth.” Her tongue licked at her cum-smeared lips.

 

Peter was speaking to her from orbit. “You… you swallowed it all…”

 

“Of course I did,” Monica said, sounding almost hurt that he would doubt it. “What else could I do with cum as sweet as yours?” She giggled and glanced down at his prick. It was still erect, but just barely. Still, Monica got the impression she wouldn’t wear herself out getting it up to its full hardness. “Remember me next time you’ve got a big load like that to… dispose of. T’Challa’s got a lot to make up to me for. And since you’re King of Wakanda, I guess that’s your job now, huh?”

 

She rose smoothly to her feet, licked her lips again, then wiped them with the back of her hand. When she left, Aneka and Ayo were waiting to escort her again.

 

“Cancel my lunch,” she told them. “I’m not hungry anymore.”


	5. Chapter 5

Nikki Adams undressed along with her boyfriend, Everett K. Ross, preparing for their evening shower. They’ve been taking showers together ever since they’ve moved in with each. It used to be fun, or at least interesting, but lately, it was like he hardly even noticed her presence.

 

As they walked from the bedroom to the bathroom, Nikki thought about, for the first time in months, how attractive Everett really was. Not in a muscular he-man sort of way, but there was just something endearingly cute about his sandy hair, his emphatic expressions, his quick turn-of-phrase. She wondered sadly why he couldn’t make love to her like he used to, with lots of romantic foreplay followed by long, ecstatic fucking. Why did it always have to be so plain these days?

 

She decided to do something about it. “Here, babe,” she said as he turned the water on, Wakanda’s piping making it instantly hot, “let me soap you.”

 

She was hoping to get a rise out of Everett as she briskly lathered his body, working down from his narrow shoulders and into his sparse chest hair. Then down his belly, lower and lower until she got to his flaccid manhood. She captured his balls in her slick, soapy hands and gave them a teasing squeeze.

 

“Hey, quit that,” Everett said. “I’ve got to get back to the office—I have a conference call back home, I can’t be distracted.”

 

Nikki took her hand back, thinking about how cool he was with her and how he never really responded to her touch. Did she not make love with him as often as she had early in the relationship? No, she didn’t, but that was why. It wasn’t worth it.

 

She finished up in the shower, washing herself as if she were alone, then flopped onto the bed while Everett changed into fresh clothes and went to his conference call. He didn’t even say goodnight.

 

Nothing made Nikki more excited than milking a cock. Nothing frustrated her more than not getting anything in return. Still lying flat on the mattress, she untied her robe and opened it up, looking down to her pussy. It even _looked_ unused, somehow.

 

Everett had used to kiss it and tease it and tickle it before he finally, _really_ went to work on it. He used to worship her body, used to spoil her with his cock. Now what did she have?

 

Reaching under her mattress, Nikki found her dildo. It wasn’t much, but it was a whole lot better than what Everett was giving her.

 

***

 

Peter awoke slowly. A long day full of politics and… other things… had left him too groggy to be fully recovered, especially in the middle of the night. But something was dragging him awake, pushing him reluctantly into consciousness.

 

The first thing he heard was the musical lilt of one of the Dora Milaje’s accented English. “Okoye said his manhood was enormous.”

 

“I thought she was exaggerating—but what she told us was not the half of it.” He recognized Aneka’s whispered voice, even half-asleep. “Let us go. If he catches us—“

 

“If I catch you, what?” Peter asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He finally got them open to see two of the Dora Milaje standing over him, eyes wide and staring.

 

Then he realized that he was start naked. Ayo—Aneka’s constant companion—had drawn the sheet away. I still drooped from her hand. And, as he’d taken Ramonda’s advice on trying sleeping naked…

 

Understanding took a moment to seep through his clouded mind. Then his face turned red.

 

“What are you doing here?” He snatched for the sheet, hauling it back over himself, though Ayo kept a tight hold on her end. “I can’t believe you snuck in her like… like…”

 

“My apologies, beloved.” Ayo spoke without a trace of embarrassment. “Okoye has spoken with us about your endowment. We were curious to see for ourselves.”

 

Peter stared, shocked. How would Okoye even… did she guard him in the shower, too, ready to intercede if he slipped on the soap? “Okay, you’ve seen, now do you mind giving a guy some privacy? It’s bad enough that I have to put up with Mrs. Ramonda in here…”

 

Ayo clenched her fist on his blanket. “Aneka and I are very close.”

 

“I’m very happy for you. Maybe you should be in your own bed, then.”

 

“We wish to have a child. Surely the king explained how… difficult such a thing is to be arranged. But when Okoye spoke of how blessed you were by the gods, we wished this blessing for ourselves.”

 

Before Peter could quite parse what she had said, both women were scooting onto the bed, squirming on either side of him as if he’d somehow agreed to a sleepover party with them.

 

“You will… indulge us, won’t you, beloved?” Ayo put in, her flesh thrillingly warm among the cool satin sheets. “We know that it may not take the first time…”

 

“So you shall perform with both of us,” Aneka said, “to double our chances.”

 

“We will, of course, make it as pleasurable as possible for you.”

 

“We wouldn’t dream otherwise, my king.”

 

Peter was numbed by the surrealism of what he had woken up into, but all the weirdness in the world couldn’t keep him from reacting to writhing bodies pressing against him on both sides. Peter felt a familiar ache in his bared cock, a stirring that was rendering it slowly erect.

 

Ayo noticed too, and gaped. “It is as Okoye said. Never have I seen such an endowment!”

 

Aneka nodded grimly. “If we are to have dealings with a male… it might as well be with such a pleasing example of it.”

 

Peter felt his face redden all over again, though by now it was far more than embarrassment he was feelings. The girls were snuggling up against him, one on each side, and he could feel their crisply soft pubic hair on his thighs. In their writhing, their loincloths had ridden up to their waists, and now he found himself looking down at their bare asses. His cock rose even further, standing firm an erect between the two scrumptious pussies nestling against his hips.

 

“By God,” Aneka exclaimed in soft admiration. “Is there another man in all Wakanda who is blessed like this?”

 

“I almost hope not,” Ayo said, “for the sake of our sisters. Not all of them have the discipline to best such a challenge.”

 

Aneka nodded again. “Not all are Dora Milaje.”

 

Ayo squirmed closer, grinding her sex on his thigh. “It’s even better up close—you can see every vein, even how it throbs. Just look!”

 

With that, she twisted around, reversing herself so that her knees were by Peter’s head and her eyes were right up beside his stiff erection, wide and unblinking. Peter had a perfect view of her tightly rounded ass, and just a hint of the crevice between her thighs, clad in a soft fringe of moistened fur.

 

At the same time, Aneka was slipping even closer, her legs parting to close over his thigh and mate herself to his body from her chin on his shoulder to her cunt along his legs. He could feel hot wetness—she was warm all over, but she was only _hot_ in her pussy.

 

“Hey now,” Peter said, growing more desperate the more he _wanted_ to give in. “T’Challa’s mom is right over there.”

 

“Not so,” Aneka said. “Behold.”

 

Peter turned his head and saw a light under the door to the bathroom. He could faintly hear the shower running.

 

These Dora Milaje sure had good timing.

 

“It is still growing!” Ayo’s voice was a worshipful mutter. “Perhaps T’Challa made him king as a token of appreciation for us.”

 

His cock stood at full rigid attention before her; Ayo was stopping herself from reaching out, grabbing that monster, and pulling it into her mouth. He was her king. She had to let him be in charge, in his own time and in his own way.

 

But her pussy felt so luscious already…

 

“We Dora Milaje see everything,” Aneka was saying, squeezing tight to Peter’s leg. “We know that Shuri has learned of your prowess.” She gasped slightly as her clit ground against the muscles of his thigh.

 

“And that the outsider Monica Lynne too received a lesson.” Peter felt Ayo’s exhaled words against his prick. His resolve melted like ice cream on a summer day.

 

Peter reached down and gave each of the girls a pat, one hand falling on each swelling ass. He barely restrained himself from squeezing both handfuls of firm, rippling flesh—just touching them seemed like taking his life into his hands. “Well,” he said, his engorged cockhead twitching as he felt the sunny warmth of their dusky skin filling his palms, “I’ve always been a big supporter of gay rights. I suppose this would just be… doing my part for the cause.”

 

He gave Aneka’s ass a tentative squeeze, and with his big hand on her pert, tiny ass, his finger nearly wormed its way into her anus.

 

“Mmmm,” she sighed, her pussy now veritably flowing against his thigh. “You’re a real ally, beloved.”

 

Aneka took his wrist and pulled it between her thighs, opening them up to accept his hand on her pussy. Instinctively, Peter’s fingers slid into her slick, wet pussy, finding the spots that turned Aneka’s usually restrained composure into gleaming eyes and a pregnant smile. He touched her G-spot; she gasped and clamped her thighs together, holding his hand in place as Peter continued to stir at her place.

 

“Ohh!” she panted, hunching forward, shuddering as the ball of his thumb turned her clit into warm friction. “That… that’s so nice!”

 

Peter just kept going, his finger dipping in and out of her, stroking from deep inside her pussy, over her spot, out to the lips of her sex. She bounced on his hand in a bumping grind, her ass bounding up and down very aesthetically.

 

His head spinning, Peter decided to pay Ayo the same attention. He kneaded her voluptuous ass, finding far more to work with than he had with Aneka, gliding his fingers into her vale to tease the rim of her asshole with his fingertips.

 

“Oh, that does feel good!” she squealed, spreading her powerful thighs to give him the full spectacle of her pink anus and slick pussy. “That is just right!”

 

Peter didn’t hear her. All of his attention was on stroking Ayo’s writhing ass and fingering Aneka’s hot cunt, bringing them both to pitched arousal. But he did notice as Aneka came up onto her knees, still working herself on his hand. In a fluid motion, she stripped off her uniform. She wore nothing underneath. Grinning deviously, she careened down onto Peter. “Now suck my tits,” she ordered huskily. “Enjoy them as much as you like, my king!”

 

Thrusting the hard-tipped mounds at his mouth, she was soon swaying deliriously as Peter took one nipple between his lips, suckling it hard to the point of torture.

 

Ayo had the same idea; Peter felt a hot, wet suction around his cockhead. When he looked, Ayo’s head was bobbing up and down, seeing how much and how much more of his cock she could take. Then Aneka moaned, crushing her tit against his mouth, whining pleadingly as he worked a second finger into her gushing sex, a third.

 

She hunched furiously on his hand, fucking it as hard as she would any other lover. “Oh, yes, that feels good! I—oh, my king, I’m coming! Oh yeah, yes—ahhhh!”

 

She thrashed in orgasm on his delving hand, and as if in counterpoint, his prick filled with throbbing need between Ayo’s lips. It was like he hadn’t really acknowledged her sucking until now, like she hadn’t really started blowing him until just now.

 

Abruptly, at the peak of her climax, Aneka twisted up over Peter’s chest so that her pussy hovered just in front of his face. He could see the winking pinkness of the slick flesh inside her cinnamon labia, the red bump of her clit throbbing tautly with erotic tension.

 

“Eat me, beloved!” she pleaded with new urgency, no longer half-putting on an act to seduce him, but expressing genuine need. “Use your tongue and make me come even better! I can’t wait any longer!”

 

Peter felt his mouth watering. Perhaps that was the signal Aneka needed to hunch down, pressing her needful cunt to his face. His tongue shot out and she wailed loudly in bliss, undulating her insatiable sex into the perfect rhythm of his lapping tongue. Her juices flowed from her like Peter had tapped a hidden reservoir, and he gulped down more and more of it, always licking away at more.

 

“By the Panther God, that’s it!” she cried, working herself frantically against his tongue. “You are fucking me with your tongue! Oh, I am fucked by a tongue! Yes! Faster! It’s so damned good!”

 

Even as she begged, Peter was dimly aware that Ayo’s mouth had released his aching cock. For a moment, he worried that Aneka’s lover had taken offense to how well his ministrations were being received. From what he’d gathered, Wakandans could be downright Klingon when it came to matters of honor, and you never knew what those matters _were_ until you’d, say, gone down on someone’s lesbian lover.

 

Then he felt something even better surrounded his purpling cockhead.

 

Twisting his head slightly, he was just able to look past Aneka’s narrow waist to see Ayo easing herself down on his manhood, her stoic face now wrenched with lust. He buried a frustrated moan in Aneka’s pussy, stabbing his tongue deep inside her as Ayo did the same with his cock, pumping it into her tight sex.

 

“His prick is so big!” Ayo wailed, coming down on him with a fervor that had her breasts bouncing heavily. “I think! I’m coming already! Annnhhhh! I could fuck it forever!”

 

They had become one heaving mass of unified bodies, the two women filling the room with their cries of utter bliss as they gyrated on Peter, perfectly following the pleasuring rhythm of his tongue and cock.

 

Aneka was the first to come, clenching her powerful thighs on Peter’s head and grinding down furiously with her cunt. Ayo, as always, had watchful eyes for her sweetheart.

 

“Come in his mouth!” she cried. “Come all over his face!”

 

Aneka swayed luxuriantly as she—as always—followed Aneka’s instructions. She gushed her juices into his open mouth and across Peter’s flushed face, and still he lapped up her cream, lapping up all the satisfaction from her satiated pussy.

 

An instant later, Ayo was splayed across Peter’s lap, her pussy wide open to take his prick to the base as she screamed in blissful completion. “I am fucked! You have fucked me! You have fucked us both!”

 

Her legs were spread so far apart that they were not straddling Peter, but lifted up to either side of him like a gymnast halfway through a routine. But Ayo evinced no skillful concentration; she was lolling in gurgling satiation as Peter’s body clenched up, unloading into her the urgent build-up of cum that had expanded his balls so fully.

 

Peter gave a loud, hoarse groan, spilling Aneka’s juices down his cheeks, as he erupted in shuddering spasms that delivered his seed up into Ayo’s clenching sex. He flooded her, returning the delicious favor that Aneka had done him.

 

Then, though she was quivering so hard she could barely move, Aneka was sliding from his tongue and pushing Ayo aside. “I’ve got to have his cock too! Give me your cum, beloved! Don’t let Ayo have it all! My king, pleeeease!”

 

In the midst of his gulping bursts, Peter felt Ayo slip away—the girl collapsing limply where Aneka dropped her—and her erstwhile lover had Peter’s manhood in hand, guiding it into her pussy before another explosion of cum could fly out of him.

 

“I AM HIS!” Aneka screamed shrilly, holding herself down with a tight grip on Peter’s hips as he lunged up into her, heaving his cock into her cunt with violent undulations of his body. He was fucking her so hard that she was almost bucked clear of him, but that just added to her pleasure. “HE IS TAKING ME!”

 

Sobbing in pure release, she took all of him, cock and cum alike. When the dregs of his ejaculation had struck home in her hungry pussy, she swayed with what little energy she had left, trying to milk out just a few more precious drops.

 

“That was…” she let out a very uncharacteristic giggle. “That was the best fuck I’ve ever had. Okoye was right. You have a wonderful cock. As soon as it’s hard again, use it on me again. Show me the ecstasies you visited upon Ayo. No… I won’t wait at all!”

 

With that, she twisted around and started licking his limp cock clean, gulping down all she could of the trio’s mixed juices, before she fastened her plump lips around his cockhead and urged his cock back toward stiffness.

 

Peter looked frantically at Ayo, wondering if the whole Klingon thing would have her take exception to how her lover was going full porn star on him, but from the purring sound she was making—it was a couples thing. “If you fuck her good, you can fuck me again after. Wherever you want, too.” The way she shook her hips showed she knew exactly what she was offering with that statement. “Because if I am not pregnant after our first congress, I must be barren.”

 

She didn’t wait for an answer, but scooted up and covered his lips with her own, her small, eager tongue darting into her mouth, the woman moaning as she tasted the familiar delicacy of Aneka’s juices on his tongue.

 

His cock was beginning to harden again, almost instantly, and as they worked together to make it even stiffer, Peter knew nothing could stop him from accepting Ayo’s generous offer.

 

Nothing, perhaps, except the shower in the bathroom shutting off as Ramonda finished washing herself.


	6. Chapter 6

Nikki Adams stretched out on her soft bed, cupping her breasts in her hands and unable to remember the last time Everett Ross had done the same. Her hands traveled down her soft, flat belly until she felt the glossy hair covering her womanhood. She extended a finger through it and brushed its tip lightly up and down her labia. Her sex almost hurt, it throbbed so hard in desire, demanding relief from the tensions that tightened her pussy and hammered at her clit. She licked her fingers, wet from her pussy. It tasted so good, she didn’t know why Everett didn’t like it.

 

But then, it wasn’t like he let her taste his cock either. It had been months since she had gone down on him. Everett seemed to have developed an antipathy to the very idea, to anything except sex in the bedroom, in the dark, her lying passively on her back until he blew his load inside her. Then sleep, for him at least. How could she sleep when her cunt was so unsatisfied?

 

She used her fingers to spread the lips of her pussy, then gently stroked herself. Nikki toyed with her clit, the bud emerging from its hood as if it too were starving to be touched. She only had to brush her fingers against it and a jarring shock blasted her womanhood. She continued massaging herself, trying to modulate the powerfully blazing sensation, even as she enjoyed it. She wished there was some way she could mouth her own pussy, draw her clitoris sweetly between her lips and caress it softly with her tongue—she just knew she could lick herself the exact right way, until her pussy exploded like a star going nova, letting out all the terrible pressures held inside her flesh, the ones she could no longer count on Everett to help free.

 

Now Nikki eased a finger inside herself, circling it around the tightened opening, her whole body tingling with desire to be touched as well. Two fingers followed the one she already had inside her cunt, and she had to hold herself back from stroking herself as rapidly as she wanted to. Her sex throbbed with need—delving into its depths felt like she was holding her hand closer and closer to a candle flame. Still, she fingered herself until, before she knew it, her hand was covered with her own warm juices.

 

Her thumb rolled over her clit and it felt almost alive, the way its engorged stiffness was twitching with delight. She could sense the fires raging out of control inside of her, forcing her to practically hump her own hand as her fingers thrust deep inside her cunt. It was good, it was _so good,_ but it still wasn’t a cock. That was what she wanted. And not to just shove inside her a few times and pump cum into her, but one that would fill her, stretch her, satisfy her. Even fucking her would be enough. Everett didn’t fuck her, he didn’t even have sex with her. He had sex with her pussy. But a real man… with a real cock…

 

Her hand moved faster, rubbing her pussy into clenching tension, her inner walls so bent on pleasure that they were burning up. She plunged her fingers even faster into her sex, the pistoning motion driving her creamy juices out over her hand. A real man, Nikki thought, wouldn’t let all that sweetness go to waste—not unless his mouth had better things to do. She licked her lips. She wanted to be kissed as she was fucked… and if those lips tasted of her wet cunt, so much the better.

 

Her plump ass bounced up and down on the bed as she fucked her own pussy, and all she could think of was a big, strong hand squeezing it, spanking it, doing _anything_ with it. You could bounce a quarter off of her ass! Why the hell was it going untouched?

 

Her cunt readied itself for the final explosion, tightening and tightening until she almost couldn’t fit her fingers into it, then she burst, her body bucking and leaping to get out all the energy—she thought of powerful arms holding her down, keeping her in place as a man just _fucked her_ right through her orgasm, made her come and come and come as her creamy nectar splashed against his groin. Her cunt squeezed her hand—she needed more, so much more inside her pussy, touching her, she felt like she could squeeze her whole arm up there and it wouldn’t be enough!

 

Then Nikki stretched out on the bed, curling her toes, not exactly relaxed, but at least without the pressing, needful urgency her flesh had been filled with before. That lust was great when it could be answered, but all she had was her hand to bring herself off.

 

She was a good girlfriend, right? Any man would want to make love to a sweet, beautiful woman like her. It wasn’t like she was a prude—she had just proven _that._ Nikki tried to imagine all the things she would do with Everett, if he would only give her the chance. She’d suck him off until he blew his load right down her throat—guys loved that. And she wouldn’t immediately spit it out as though she were disgusted by the taste either. She honestly loved how it tasted, and how it felt inside her mouth. She would keep him between her lips as she sucked him clean and bathed his dripping prick with her tongue.

 

And if he would do the same—before, after, or during—so much the better. Nikki felt a shiver pass through her as she thought about a set of lips against her pussy, tongue going inside her, tasting her, stoking the flames that would become an inferno when he replaced that warm tongue with his prick.

 

Nikki even dreamed of being rolled over, nimble fingers opening up her buttocks, letting in his fiery cock to ream her out until her bowels were filled with steaming hot cum.

 

It would all be so wonderful, she thought, and probably better still if it were someone other than Everett, if he had to face what he was missing out on, knowing someone else was fucking her and satisfying her and getting her to do _everything_ he wanted. But she was in Wakanda, the ‘woman’ of America’s honored ambassador and T’Challa’s close personal friend. No self-respecting man here would dare touch her. It’d be like eating from the Tree of Knowledge. So until she was assigned somewhere else by the State Department, it was Everett or nothing at all.

 

Hell, the moment she flew out of here, she would probably proposition the flight attendant. And whatever he wanted to try, he would find her a most willing subject.


End file.
